Unconditional
by Halia
Summary: [The Godfather] Kay is gone, leaving Michael with their two children at the house in Tahoe. After an outburst between them nearly turns violent, 10 yr. old Anthony begins to have doubts about what kind of man his father really is. Post-Part II. Please R


**Unconditional**

**Plot:** [The Godfather] Kay is gone, leaving Michael with their two children at the house in Tahoe. And after an outburst between he, his sister, and his father nearly turns violent, 10-year-old Anthony begins to have his doubts about what kind of man his father really is. Post-Part II. Please R&R!

 "What's your job, daddy?"

Michael Corleone was so startled by this question at 5 pm--dinner time--at the family estate in Lake Tahoe that he briefly stopped chewing his steak and looked up to glance at his son. Anthony was staring back at him dead-on.

"My job?"

Anthony kept his mouth in a thin line. His eyes--black and solemn as the night, just like his father's--momentarily crossed the table to meet 4-year-old Mary's. The little girl bit her lip and looked only at the plate of rigatoni in front of her. Michael could tell that his children had discussed this before now; perhaps even in great detail and retrospect--if that was at all possible, he thought to himself.

"I...make decisions. Many important decisions, about the hotels and casinos the family owns--you know what casinos are, right?--and when I make a decision, if it turns out to be a good one, I get paid."

Anthony didn't look entirely satisfied. In fact it appeared as if he had no idea what Michael was talking about. "But what's your _job_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, at school, the boy's dads are firemen, or teachers, or doctors...what are you?"

"I just told you, son, I make decisions. I'm a businessman. I usually--"

"--Momma says you kill people--"

"--Find...what?"

Mary started to cry slowly. Her eyes shut tightly and she let out a long, thin whimper before the sobs began. They came out as brief chokes and she covered her face with her hands. Michael ignored her; he could only stare at his son with a kind of helpless shock.

"She what...?"

"She was on the phone with grandma and grandpa in New Hampshire, and she said you--you kill people. Lots of people." Anthony was now gazing back at his father with a numb hopefulness. "Is it true?"

Mary coughed and wailed. Her cheeks were rose-red and tears dripped helplessly down her face as her fists clumped in front of her eyes.

Michael didn't say anything for a moment. Just seconds earlier the world seemed very calm and in control, everything in focus. It wasn't now. Suddenly everything inside him was boiling, bubbling and brewing; blood and brains churning into one hapless storm of rage and immensity.

_Bitch..._

"Is it true?" asked Anthony again, now sounding slightly more intense than he had before. At least three more moments passed, and now Mary was flat-out screaming. They were tortured, agonizing screams that made the whole house seem to shiver with pain.

"Dad, is it--"

"Mary, will you _shut up!?_" hollered Michael, slamming his fist down on the table. The little girl drew in a sharp breath and bolted upright, her tears stopping almost immediately. She stared in horror at her father.

Michael instantaneously had that look on his face that he had gone too far--and knew it--but all he did was release a few heavy breaths and cover his hand with his face.

"I want mommy," she said weakly, sounding ready to release another bout of weeping.

"Mommy's gone," said Michael quietly, still not removing his hand from his eyes. "Mommy's gone and she is not coming back."

"Did you kill her?"

Michael immediately felt something snap in his brain as his hand dropped to his side. Anthony's eyes were puffy, as if he were about to cry, and his button lip was trembling. The boy's question came out far too soon for his father to handle, and Michael lurched forward with his arm as if to grab Anthony's shirt. Mary shrieked and knocked her chair over as she scrambled out of the room, and her brother followed just as quickly. Both children were screaming.

"_Mommy!__ Mommy!"_ Mary's cries were deafening and echoed throughout the enormous house as Michael gave chase to them, knocking down whatever was in his path. He ran from the dining room into one of the living areas, through the mudroom and into a hallway. "_MOMMY!__ MOMMY! DADDY'S GONNA KILL US, HE'S GONNA KILL US!_"

"_Shut up!_" roared Michael, and before he knew it his hands were unlacing the belt tied around his waist. It was long, black and shiny in his hand, like a poisonous snake ready to lash out at whatever provoked it.

He found Mary first, huddled in the corner of his bedroom--the corner next to Kay's old half of the bed. She was curled up, her bow hanging messily from her chestnut hair as she wept and wept into her hands.

Tired and out of breath, Michael slowly felt the belt slide from his hand and onto the floor as he approached his daughter slowly. When she looked up and saw him coming, she screamed in what sounded like the most supreme level of terror and reinforced herself against the wall, as if hoping it would suck her into it. "_NO! NOOO! NO!_"

Michael fell upon her and tried to resist her kicks and scratching whilst attempting to collect her in his arms. "Mary--_Mary_--"

"_Noooo__!_You killed mommy and you're gonna kill Anthony and me and all of us!You're gonna kill_ ALL OF US!_"

Her screaming, however, had turned her exhausted, and Michael used every ounce of strength that he could to lock her in a tight embrace. She instantly went limp, and felt so small and helpless against his chest. He could feel the hot warmth of her tears seep through his shirt. She didn't struggle now; only cried freely onto his shoulder. "Shh, it's okay...it's okay, baby."

He rocked her back and forth as he picked her up and sat down on the edge of his bed, her body cradled snugly against the curve of his torso. Her legs gathered up by his stomach, and her glossy black Mary Jane was falling off from running around so frantically. He refastened it gently around her little foot.

Anthony appeared in the doorway. His pant leg was rolled up and a patch of fresh blood stained his knee, and he looked as if he'd just been crying heavily.

Michael gazed at him for a moment or two silently, before beckoning him into an embrace. Anthony did not move. He was trembling all over and looked frighteningly pale.

His father still said nothing. Perhaps it was because the strongest sense of loss he had ever experienced in his life began to sink into his veins. He wanted Kay. He wanted her here; with him and their children...he wanted her arms around him...

_It won't come_, he thought. _Mommy's gone. Mommy's gone and she is not coming back._

He pressed his lips tightly onto Mary's forehead and closed his eyes, his breaths starting to sound more and more forced.

When Anthony saw this, he couldn't help but feel an urgent and explicable sense of pity. He approached Michael with utmost wariness until he finally slipped himself into his father's arms.

He looked up and saw small tears forming at the corners of the don's closed eyes, but neither father nor son made any oral acknowledgement of this, despite it being the first time either of them had undergone such a thing.

"You hurt your leg," said Michael at last, pushing Anthony back slightly so he could inspect the wound. He rubbed the barely visible tears away and kept Mary close with a secure arm around her back. "How?"

"Running from you."

"Connie will help you with it."

"Can you do it?" Anthony asked. "I want you to."

Michael clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and glanced down at Mary. Her eyes were glued onto the wall straight ahead and she was still crying, but not as bad as before. Michael made a slight motion to lay his daughter on the bed, but she gave a whimper of protest and clung to her father tighter.

"I can't, she won't get up..."

"I can wait."

"No, no, you need to get that cleaned up. I don't want it infected."

Anthony didn't object this time. He was tired of doing that. He turned to leave and get his aunt until Michael put his hand on his shoulder and turned him around.

"I love you, Anthony," he said. His voice faltered as if he were about to cry, and his eyes were saying the same thing, but no tears came this time. "I love you."

"I love you too, dad," answered Anthony slowly. "Even if what mom says is--"

Michael's face suddenly hardened. "Don't--"

"--true, you're my father," continued Anthony, ignoring him, "I do love you." He paused. "But I would rather die than be like you."

And with that, Anthony Corleone left his father and sister alone to seek out his aunt in the boathouse.

The numbness and confusion that passed over Michael's brain was so excruciatingly foreign and painful he felt temporarily blinded; the only relief coming from his crying little daughter in his arms.

"Don't let me die, okay?" whispered Mary suddenly. Michael cleared his throat and let the weepy feeling pass over him, and he began to rock her back and forth again. "Okay?"

"Don't be silly," he said quietly. "No one is going to hurt you, my love." He kissed her forehead.

"Never ever?"

"Never ever," he repeated.

"Is mommy dead?"

"No," he replied. "Mommy's not dead, mommy's with grandma and grandpa now, in New Hampshire."

She sniffled and rubbed her nose. "When will I see her?"

"When she comes back."

"When's that?"

He sighed heavily and rested his chin on top of her head. "I don't know," he muttered. "Soon. She'll come soon."

"She'll come for me? Take me away?"

Michael closed his eyes tightly, feeling his jaw lock momentarily. "If you want that."

She gave what sounded like a little exhale of contentment, but said, "I don't. I don't wanna leave, I want to be with you." She hugged him tightly. "I just wanna be like this, okay?"

Michael took her face in his hands and lifted her chin gently so she was staring him directly in the eye. She was a beautiful young girl, with a tiny button nose, full lips and her father's coloring. He smiled and kissed her on each cheek, and breathed, "Oh, Mary. My little Mary..."

She fell asleep in his arms about twenty minutes later. He carried her to her bedroom and laid her beneath her covers after removing her shoes and socks, then went downstairs to wait for his son. About thirty minutes went by since Anthony had initially left to find Connie, so after some short deliberation, Michael took his coat and decided to venture to the boathouse.

When he got outside, Anthony was sitting on the ledge by the docks that overlooked the lake. The sun was going down, and the air was chilly.

Michael walked briskly over to the ledge with his hands in his pockets. "What are you doing?" he asked. His voice startled his son, and the boy gasped briefly and turned around before relaxing again.

"I dunno."

"Watching the sunset?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you can't see it from here. You'd have to go to the other side of the house. Rises in the east, sets in the west." He paused. "Did Connie fix you up?"

"Yeah."

_I would rather die than be like you._

"Come back when you're ready," said Michael, putting a hand on his son's shoulder for a second before heading back inside.

Anthony turned his head to watch his father disappear through the door. When he heard it close and was sure he was alone again, he bit his lip and watched the water hiss against the foundation of the land. Soon his eyes ventured to the exact spot where Fredo had been found.

He knew his father had done it. He knew it that instant he was told to get out of the boat that morning, and by that ominous look in his father's eye since Mama Corleone's funeral. Anthony just didn't know _why, _though--especially since Fredo was a virtually helpless person, and never did anything (most of all to his family) without the best of intentions. So in what part of this did his murder fit in? Who would want him dead?

_My father,_ Anthony thought. _His own brother.___

And it dawned on him that brothers share that bond of unconditional love, just as a father and a son do. So what if Anthony ever got in the way of "business?" What then?

The thought filled Anthony with such dread that he began to cry, alone on the ledge, no one to hear him. He wanted his mother so very badly...

He didn't kiss Kay before she left Tahoe that last time because he thought she had done something wrong. That was the impression his father gave out. He didn't want to kiss anyone who was causing dad any trouble, but then in that brief instant when his mother was about to speak, Michael slammed the door in her face, and gave Anthony that cold yet victorious stare. It was the same stare that he wore the day Fredo died.

At the time, Anthony was instantly terrified that his mother would be shot or strangled upon entry to the car that would have driven her to the airport.

But, obviously and fortunately, that didn't happen. Anthony wanted to scold himself for believing that his father would be capable of doing such a thing as killing Kay, but when one looked to the other atrocities the don had committed, his son just wasn't sure anymore.

She called him as soon as she got to New Hampshire. And she had been calling every so often, though not as much as Anthony would like.

He thought of the way his father and mother danced the night of his first communion. And Anthony saw something both sad and remarkable that night: a reminder of the man Michael once was; the Michael Kay fell in love with.

That Michael was dead: shot, stabbed, strangled, and beaten to death by none other than himself.

Anthony was tired. He laid his head down on the granite he was sitting on so he was stretched out comfortably, the cold wind blowing his dark hair.

He decided to play the image of his parents dancing on communion night in his head over and over again; it was nice and calming. He looked directly in front of him at the exact spot it had taken place, imagined the scene playing out before his eyes.

"Solitude," by Duke Ellington wafts through the night air. It smells like smoke and fresh-cut red apples. Michael, looking radiantly handsome in a suit, takes Kay's hand and twirls her gently, so her lavender skirt billows gracefully around her legs. They are alone. No crowd tonight. The dozens of strings of lights twinkle in the background, out of focus, looking like diamonds dipped in champagne; like fuzzy stars. Michael takes Kay's hand and kisses it, leans her towards the ground; her hair spills past her shoulders and she throws her head back and laughs. He smiles broadly and brings his lips to hers, and whispers something before they kiss; kiss for a long time.

And everything is perfect.

I hope you enjoyed! If you reviewed it would really mean so much to me. Thanks again! :)


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